'Again, things are a bit more rigorous now, but then, once the adoption order had been signed, that was it. Not our responsibility any more.'
'I get the feeling you've already checked this…'
She shrugged. 'I know someone in Adoption PS so I gave her a ring. Their records are a bit more organised than ours. Have you got a pen?'
Holland couldn't help smiling. He stretched across and grabbed a pen from his desk. 'Go ahead…'
'Irene and Roger Noble formally adopted Mark and Sarah Foley on 12 February, 1984. They may well have moved shortly after that, but that was certainly the last contact the children had with Essex social services…'
Holland scribbled down the information. From everything they knew, it seemed that it was the last contact Mark and Sarah Foley had had with anybody.
They walked slowly around the edge of the cricket field towards the children's playground; moving along the path of shadow cast by a line of overhanging oaks and hornbeams. Deep into the school holidays, there were plenty of people around. The temperature was starting to drop as the sky clouded over, but here and there were glimpses of a dark blue, like bruises fading on puffy flesh.
'Mark Foley still sounds like a good bet to me.'
'Yeah, I think so too,' Thorne said. 'Just wish I could cash it in.'
'It'll happen. He can't stay hidden for ever.'
'I've still got a problem with motive, though.'
Chamberlain threw Thorne a look of theatrical surprise. 'I thought you were the type who didn't care about why…'
'Ultimately, it's not my job, is it? But if it's going to help me catch him…'
'Go on…'
'I can see the motive for killing Alan Franklin…'
'It's about as good as it gets. Franklin caused everything, might just as well have killed his parents. Took him long enough to get revenge, though.'
'I think I can understand the waiting,' Thorne said. Chamberlain grinned. 'Maybe he's just a lazy sod.'
Thorne thought he was pretty well qualified to give an opinion on that one. 'I don't think so…'
They came slowly to a halt.
'He was growing up,' Thorne said. 'Letting his body grow strong, letting the hatred grow stronger. Then he waits until Franklin's old, until he feels safe, before he puts an end to it in that car park.'
'Only that isn't an end to it…'
'No, it isn't. It should have been though, shouldn't it? Mark settles it, gets clean away with it, gets on with his life.'
'Whatever that is…'
'So why the hell does he pop up again now? Why these others? Why kill Remfry, Welch and Southern?'
'Maybe he enjoys it.'
'I'm damn sure he's enjoying it now, but that's not why he started. Not why he started again, I mean. Something else happened…'
'The rape element is crucial though, you've always said that. Maybe he was raped himself.'
'Maybe.' Thorne felt like they were going over old ground. They'd considered this back when they thought the killer might have been an ex-prisoner, looking to settle an old score. It was possible, certainly, but it felt stale to him, and unhelpful.
Chamberlain jumped at a sudden, sharp crack from behind them. Half a dozen boys were messing about in the cricket nets, and for a minute or two, the pair of them stood and watched. When she finally spoke, Chamberlain had to lean in close to make herself heard over the noise the kids were making.
'Something I remember from a poem at school,' she said. Thorne kept his eye on the action, inclining his head towards her to listen.
''Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies…''
'What's that from?' Thorne asked as they began walking again.
'One of those anthologies we had to read. I don't know…'
As they reached their cars, parked on the main road, Chamberlain stopped and put a hand on Thorne's arm. 'It's good, knocking ideas around like this, Tom, it's useful. But don't forget that if the answer's there, if it's anywhere, it's in the details. It's in the facts that make up the pattern of a case.'
Thorne nodded, opening the doo of the BMW. He knew that there were answers. He knew too that he already had them somewhere, misfiled and, thus far, irretrievable. Lost among the tens of thousands of facts, relevant or otherwise, to the case. The ever-expanding headfull of shit that he carried around with him all the time: names and places and dates and snippets of statements; words and numbers and small gestures; access codes and times of death; the look on a relative's face; the scuff mark on a hotel guest's shoe; the weight of a dead man's liver… Thorne knew that the answer was buried in there somewhere and it bothered him. Something else bothered him and he thought twice before mentioning it.
'What you were saying about patterns…'
'What?'
'The second and third victims. He changed the pattern of killing between Welch and Southern.'
'Of course he did. Because he presumed that once you'd connected the killings, you'd contact the prisons and warn them. He had to do the next one differently.'
'What if he knew, rather than presumed?' Thorne said. 'What if he knew because he's close to the investigation? We always talked about him having access of some kind. Then other stuff came along and the idea got blurred. What if I was wrong to dismiss the idea that the killer's one of us…?'
When Thorne got back to Becke House, he was directed straight to Brigstocke's office. Holland was telling Brigstocke and Kitson about what Joanne Lesser had said, and his subsequent phone conversation with Mrs. Irene Noble. Thorne made Holland back-pedal, asked him to go over Lesser's visit again until he was up to speed.
'It's interesting that the dates of the adoption and the move look to be so close together,' Brigstocke said.
'It gets a lot more interesting. When I finally got hold of Irene Noble, told her I wanted to talk about Mark and Sarah Foley, the first thing she did was to ask me if we'd found them.'
Thorne looked across at Brigstocke. 'How would she know we were looking?'
'No, sir, that's not what she meant,' Holland said. He flipped over a page in his notebook, read from it. ''Have you finally found them?' That's what she actually said. She's talking about twenty years ago.'
Holland looked up and across at Thorne. 'She claims that the kids disappeared back in 1984…'
'Just after the Nobles adopted them,' Thorne said.
'Right.' Brigstocke got up, walked around his desk. 'And around the time they moved away from Colchester.'
Holland stuck his notebook away and leaned back against a chair.
'Now it gets even better. Mrs. Noble reckons that there Was an official investigation at the time. The children were reported as missing, she says. The police spent weeks looking for them.'
'You've checked?' Brigstocke asked
'It's rubbish. I went back to 1983, just in case she was getting the dates confused, and there's bugger all. No records of any search, no records of missing person's reports. There was nothing national, nothing local. It never happened…'
'What impression did you get when you spoke to her?' Thorne asked.
'She sounded like she meant it. She was upset…'
'Turning it on, d'you reckon?'
'No, I don't think so. Sounded genuine enough…'
'Where's the husband?'
'Roger Noble died in 1990. Heart attack…'
Thorne thought about this for a second or two, then turned to Brigstocke. 'Well, I reckon we'd better have a word with her then.'
Brigstocke nodded. 'Where is she, Dave?'
'She lives in Romford, but she's coming into town tomorrow. Likes to do her shopping in the West End, she
