She glanced up at Thorne, then turned to look at her father. He smiled and nodded. Said, ‘It’s OK.’
‘We were kissing or whatever for a few minutes and then suddenly his hands were all over the place.’ Her own hand moved from the arm of the chair as she spoke, passed lightly across her chest and down to her lap. ‘They were everywhere, you know . . . his fingers. I told him I had to get home because I had an early start, but really I was starting to feel like it was a big mistake, like I’d really messed up, even though he was whispering and telling me how great it was going to be. How long he could . . . keep going. I told him to stop.’ She looked up again and suddenly there was strength in her voice. ‘I told him to stop and I wasn’t drunk. It was just a couple of glasses and I was . . . not drunk.
‘But he was really strong, you know? He used to show off during the lessons, bench-pressing and all that, using a few of the girls like they were weights, so when he started to get rough there was nothing I could do. He kept talking to me . . . while he was doing it, saying he knew how much I wanted it, that his girlfriend used to pretend that she didn’t like it rough, but he knew she was a lying bitch as well. I just closed my eyes until it was over, tried not to make any noise, but . . . he hurt me.
‘He hurt me . . .
‘Then I got dressed and he was watching me, saying there was no point telling anybody, because I’d wanted to go back to his flat and I’d been drinking and nobody would believe that I hadn’t been begging him for it.’
She paused and Jesmond began to say something about how sensitively offences of this nature were now handled. But Thorne was not really listening and neither was Andrea Keane.
‘When I left,’ she said, looking at Thorne, ‘he just sat there, sniffing his fingers, same as he’d done with the cork. Appreciating it. Like I was just some . . . bottle he’d opened.’
Her father moaned next to her.
‘I couldn’t go home, I couldn’t bear facing anyone for a while, so I called Sarah and she drove up to collect me. I didn’t mean to stay away for so long. I mean, it wasn’t like I had a plan or anything, but when I knew everyone was looking for me it just got harder and harder to come back. Then I saw that he’d been arrested, so . . .’
She looked up and it was clear that she’d finished. Now her father’s face was streaked with tears. Jesmond reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, but it was ignored.
‘So, why now?’ Thorne asked. ‘Why did you come back now?’
‘Because he got off. Because he walked out of that courtroom like butter wouldn’t melt and I watched him on the TV and saw him in the papers and it felt like he was doing it to me all over again. Like he was doing it to everyone.’
‘What if he hadn’t got off? Would you have done nothing and let him go down for murder?’
‘Like a shot,’ she said. ‘Even if it meant staying away for good. Knowing he’d been punished for something would have made that worth it.’
‘What about your parents? How could you not have told them you were OK?’ Thorne blinked as he remembered asking Ellie Langford almost exactly the same question a few weeks before.
‘I would have let them know,’ Andrea said. ‘And they would have understood.’ She looked at her father. ‘They’d have kept the secret.’
Stephen Keane nodded, sat back and wiped his face. ‘So . . . that’s it.’
‘Right,’ Jesmond said. ‘Thanks . . .’
As the chief superintendent started to talk about taking statements, sympathy and determination seemed to be etched in equal measure across his puffy features. But Thorne knew how skilled the man was at showing people what they needed or wanted to see. In reality, Jesmond was feeling nothing but pure and simple relief.
Thorne felt something a whole lot darker.
FORTY-NINE
Thorne and Kitson were sitting in an unmarked car outside a house in Cricklewood. The street was quiet, lined with flowering oaks. Adam Chambers had moved in only a few weeks before, and Thorne wondered how much assorted publishers and tabloid editors were contributing to the mortgage.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Kitson asked. She did not receive an answer. ‘Come on, we know he’s in there.’
‘There’s no rush.’
‘Really? You must have averaged sixty miles an hour all the way here . . .’
Thorne stared at the house. He tried to sort things out in his mind, to compartmentalise, but it was impossible. A few months earlier, Andrea Keane had become Ellie Langford, then Candela Bernal, and now, however much he tried to be professional and pretend otherwise, all of the victims were blurring into one. A young woman who had not been cut out to work in a bank. Who talked too much and told stupid jokes, and who had been absolutely right when she’d called him a fuck-up.
There was no point kidding himself.
This was for Anna every bit as much as it was for Andrea.
He got out of the car and slammed the door. A few seconds later, Kitson did the same, and the sun bled butter through a gash in the clouds as they began walking towards Adam Chambers’ front door.
‘He’ll wish he’d killed her,’ Thorne said.
Acknowledgements
I am hugely grateful to the many people who have helped make this book so much better than it would otherwise have been . . .
The input and support from everyone at Little, Brown has been invaluable as always, most notably of course from the peerless David Shelley, while the ‘furniture’ that my agent Sarah Lutyens continues to supply just gets lovelier with each book.
There is at least one bookshop in which I will always be stocked!
Thanks probably come a poor second to lavish gifts or cold hard cash, but they are due nonetheless to Wendy Lee, Peter Cocks and Victoria Jones. And to the two people whose names I did not discover: the dodgy-looking man who wanted to buy my hat in a bar in Mijas and could easily have been Alan Langford, and the girl on the beach in Puerto Banus, who became Candela Bernal.
And to Claire, of course. It goes without saying.
While all those mentioned above have contributed enormously to From the Dead, the mistakes remain entirely my own work. On that subject, I would like to point out that I am well aware that the feria Virgen de la Peña takes place every year in Mijas Pueblo in September and not in April. Having experienced the festival myself in all its hypnotic and spooky splendour, it was not something I could deny Tom Thorne. So I hope that those who are – even now – reaching for their green pens to write me angry letters will forgive me taking liberties with the calendar in the interests of the story.
From the Dead Page 34