Lazybones

'Who wants to die ignorant?'

'You can't do much about that,' Jameson said, 'however many answers you get…'

'Is this the pet project you talked about? These killings? The thing of your own you wanted to get off the ground…'

Jameson laughed. 'That's quite funny. Be a damn sight more interesting than local authority training videos, that's for sure. There you go, there's one more piece of your puzzle. One more thing to make you a bit less ignorant…'

Thorne was already trying to work it out. 'It's how you got into the Register, isn't it? Not sure where the connection is. Social services?'

Eve provided the answer. 'The National Probation Directorate. Specifically the Sex Offenders and Corrections Unit…'

' Towards a National Information Strategy isn't Citizen Kane; Jameson said. 'But they were more than happy for me to do all the research I needed and their security was very sloppy. They were somewhat lax about unattended computers, access to databases, that sort of thing. Mind you, that was exactly why they wanted the video made in the first place…'

It suddenly struck Thorne that Jameson had probably been on the list that was compiled of contact numbers for Charlie Dodd. A video production company would not have seemed suspicious, bearing in mind the nature of Dodd's business. Never having known it, Thorne would not have recognised the name of Jameson's company anyway. It didn't matter a great deal now…

'That was fortunate for you,' Thorne said.

'We all need a bit of luck now and again,' Eve said. 'Some of us more than others…'

Thorne lifted his face from the carpet, feeling fibres and tiny pieces of grit sticking to the dried blood on his chin. He took the weight on his forehead and looked back through the gap underneath his arm. Jameson was delving into the rucksack he'd placed on the end of the bed. Eve stood by his side, her eyes never leaving Thorne.

'We should get this done,' she said.

Thorne saw a flash of blue as Jameson pulled out the length of washing line, then one of black, which he presumed was the hood. He felt the fear that was the creature in his chest grow heavier. He closed his eyes and saw it climbing, using the slats of his ribcage like a ladder, heaving itself upwards lit-de by little.

As was so often the way, it was the last part of the journey that was proving the most frustrating. It had taken ages to get across the Holloway Road at the Nag's Head and up to Tufnell Park. Now the ridiculous number of traffic lights and pedestrian crossings on the Kentish Town Road was providing a last-minute annoyance. Holland thought about calling again. He decided that even if Thorne was off the phone or had turned the mobile back on, he was more or less there now anyway, so there wasn't much point… Holland drove down the inside lane, swerving back out right when he came up against a bus and deftly cutting up a black cab in the process. At the next set of lights the taxi came up his inside and the driver wound down his window to give him an earful. Holland held up his warrant card, told the fat cabbie to luck off and watched, smiling, as he did.

When the lights changed, Holland swung into Prince of Wales Road. Thorne's street was the third on the right. He indicated and slowed to a stop, glancing down at the photos while he was waiting for a break in the traffic.

When one finally came, he turned, wondering if they'd even allow Thorne to be there when they made the arrests.

'It is the most fantastic story though,' Jameson said. 'Maybe I should write it, change all the names of course, to protect the innocent…'

'Whoever they are,' Thorne said.

'It would be in three parts. Three acts, if you like, same as any classic screenplay…'

'You live and learn.'

'Not for much longer.'

The black thing inside Thorne climbed another rib…

'For the first part we have to go back in time. Flared trousers and shit hair and a piece of scum who probably has both. A man drags a woman into a storeroom and rapes her.'

'Your mother…'

Thorne felt the vibrations as feet moved quickly across the carpet towards him, then the pain of a heel pressing down on to the side of his face. 'Let him tell it,' Eve said.

'The rapist, thanks largely to the police, is found not guilty. The woman suffers a breakdown. Her husband goes mad.' Jameson emptied the facts from his mouth like he was spitting out dirt. 'He kills her and then himself and their bodies are discovered by their two young children who are subsequently taken into foster care. It's a dramatic start, don't you reckon?'

'That's why I'm here, isn't it?' Thorne said. The shoe came back down across the side of his face and ear. Jameson said something he couldn't make out and the foot was lifted. Thorne turned his head and saw Eve moving back across the room towards her brother. ''Thanks largely to the police', that's what you said. So, I have to die because of the way some fuckwit handled a rape case nearly thirty years ago.' He received no answer. 'Yes? Is that about right?'

'There's no point bleating about life being unfair,' Eve said. 'We're the 'last people you'll get any sympathy from there…'

'I understand why. I just want to know why me?' 'Because you answered the phone.'

And Thorne saw that it really was that simple. The message left by the killer on Eve Bloom's answering machine had always bothered him, and finally he understood why. It had been 'left' so that Eve had an excuse to call the hotel – a call to a murder scene that would be answered by a police officer. The wreaths had been ordered after the subsequent killings purely to make it look like part of a pattern.

They had selected their rapists with care. Their final victim, Thorne himself, had been chosen completely at random. He remembered what he'd said to Eve, what she'd said to him, twenty minutes earlier in bed:

'It could easily have been somebody else who answered that phone…'

' Then it could very easily have been somebody else who was here now.'

He could still see the look on her face as she'd said it. He imagined the look on his father's, as he received the news of Thorne's death.

'I've got a great title as well,' Jameson said. 'For this sordid little horror story. What do you think of 'Out of the Frying Pan into the Fire''?

'We know about Roger Noble…'

'Oh you do?' For the first time, though Jameson did not raise his voice, Thorne could hear emotion behind it, white-hot and lethal.

'You might know what he did, but you can't know how it felt.'

'Bad enough so that you had to leave.'

'Well done…'

'To protect your sister…'

'Noble didn't want to hurt me,' Eve said. 'He wanted to hurt my baby.'

'He made you pregnant?'

Jameson laughed. 'We're back to ignorance. We should have a little bell to ring, or a buzzer, for when you get it wrong or say something stupid. Noble liked boys. The baby was mine.'

'Ours,' Eve said. 'So we left when they tried to make me get rid of it.'

Thorne realised that it had been shame he'd heard in Irene Noble's voice when she'd stared into her M amp; S coffee and talked about 'behavioural' problems. It had probably been her idea to move in the first place, to get the abortion performed in a different area, to avoid the scandal…

'What happened to the child?' Thorne asked.

Jameson answered matter-of-factly. 'We lost it. Who knows, when all this is over, we might try again.'

For perhaps half a minute, nobody spoke. Thorne lay in agony, a breeze from somewhere passing across his bare skin. The feeling had gone from his hands, and the thumping of his heart was lifting his chest clear off the carpet.

When all this is over…