THIRTY-THREE
Yvonne Kitson rang him on his way to St Albans.
'Tom, how are you doing?'
'I'm good. What about you?'
'I'm fine. Listen…'
Thorne knew very well that Kitson was far from fine. Her husband had taken the kids after discovering her affair with a senior officer and now her career looked likely to fall apart as comprehensively as her family. It had been her husband who had made the call to her superiors, told them exactly what his wife had been up to, and with whom…
'Listen,' she said, 'I thought you'd like to know straight away. We've got a provisional date for the trial.'
It had been six weeks since the arrests of Eve Bloom and Ben Jameson. Since Thorne had been led from his own flat, a hand on his arm and a blanket around his shoulders, like so many victims he'd watched in the past, shuffling towards police cars and ambulances, saucer-eyed and colourless.
Now they would need to go through it all again. The case was 365 already being put together, but now, with a date set, the pace would really pick up. The documentation had to be disclosed to the Crown Prosecution Service, and the witnesses properly prepared. Everything had to be carefully gathered and shaped, so that professionals could take it into a courtroom and use it to get a conviction. Thorne of course would be spared the donkey work. His moment would come later, in the witness box.
Not that Thorne had ever stopped going through it… In stark contrast to real life, Eve Bloom was always disturbingly honest in the Restorative Justice Conferences Thorne imagined with her daily. Of course, there had never been the slightest interest in him sexually. If she'd wanted to, she could easily have slept with him at her place. What wouldn't have been so easy with a flatmate around was what she and her brother had been planning to do all along. That she hadn't had the opportunity to do it sooner, to get Thorne where she wanted him at his place, was down to a seventeen-year-old smack-head who'd burgled Thorne's flat and, without knowing it, saved his life.
It was down to something else to6, of course… Thorne had called it laziness. A fear of things going further. A reluctance to move a relationship along. Could it really have been something else altogether? Some indefinable instinct for self preservation? Whatever it was, Thorne was grateful for it. He hoped, God forbid it should ever be needed, that he would recognise it next time around…
Thorne ended the call with Kitson and turned Nixon back up. He'd given Lambchop another chance, and was pleased that he had. Their sound, somehow lush and stripped down at the same time, was hypnotic. He listened to the singer's strange whisperings, and thought about the trial. He thought about wounds opening and scars healing, about others whose lives had been nudged, or knocked or smashed forever out of kilter…
Sheila Franklin and Irene Noble and Peter Foley…
Denise Hollins, who'd lived with one murderer and shared her bed with another. Thorne had stayed in touch with her, but their conversations were rarely easy. She could not even start to put together the intricate jigsaw of her shattered life, when so many of the tiny pieces had yet to be found.
Dave Holland, father of a three-day-old baby. Thorne was sure he would do his best to make the history of his own, brand-new family a simple one…
Thorne's exit was coming up and he tried to focus on some of the more mundane elements of the court case.
He indicated and moved across to the inside lane, thinking about shaving off the beard he'd grown to cover the scar, and about getting his suit dry-cleaned. Thinking about reminding Phil Hendricks to take all his earrings out before giving evidence… Thorne's father had the bits of two or three different radios spread out on the table in front of him. Every so often he'd slam a piece down, or swear loudly in frustration. Then he'd look across at Thorne, sitting, n the sofa, and grin like a child who's been caught misbehaving. Thorne was looking at a picture of his father from maybe thirty years before. The majority of the old photo albums were foxed and falling apart; none had been taken out of the sideboard since his mother had died. She had been the photographer, the one who always remembered to take along the Instamatic, who bought the albums from Boots and spent evenings pasting in the pictures… Thorne looked from the photo to the real thing, from the young man to the old. His father looked up at him. Thorne noticed, as he always did, the hair that like his own, was greyer on one side than the other.
'Do you want some tea?' his father said.
Thorne understood the code. 'I'll make you some in a minute…'
He turned a stiff, faded page and stared at a picture of a young couple, their arms around a child of six or seven. The three of them sat, squinting against the sunlight, a deep green sea of bracken rising up behind them.
Thorne smiled at the can of beer in his father's hand, at the expression on his mother's face having talked some hapless passer-by into taking the picture. He stared down at the boy, grinning happily at the camera. The brown eyes round and bright, the shadows yet to fall across his face.
Long before anybody died.
TWELVE
Carol Chamberlain felt twenty years younger. Every thought and sensation was coming that bit quicker, feeling that bit stronger. She felt hungrier, more awake. The night before in bed, she'd leaned across and 'helped herself', for heaven's sake, which had certainly surprised and delighted her old man. Maybe the battered green folder on her lap would prove to be the saving of both of them… Jack was still smiling twelve hours later, as he brought a plate of toast through to her. She blew him a kiss. He took his anorak from the stand in the corner, off to pick up a paper.
Carol had been fifty-two, a DCI for a decade, when the Met's ludicrous policy of compulsory retirement after thirty years had pushed her out of the force. That had been three years ago. It had rankled, for each day of those three years, right up to the moment when that phone call had come out of the blue.
Carol had been amazed, and not a little relieved… She knew how much she had to offer, still had to offer, but she also knew that this chance had come along at the very last moment. If she was being honest, she would have to admit that recently she'd felt her self slowly giving in, throwing in the towel in much the same way that her husband had.
She heard the gate creak shut. Turned to watch Jack walking away up the road. An old man at fifty-seven…
Carol picked up the folder from her knees. Her first cold case. A sticker on the top right-hand corner read 'AMRU'. The Area Major Review Unit was what it said at the top of the notepaper. The Cold Case Team was how they thought of themselves. In the canteen they were just called the Crinkly Squad. They could call her what they sodding-well liked, but she'd do the same bloody good job she'd always done…
The day before at Victoria, when she'd collected the file from the General Registry, she'd noticed straight away that it had been pulled only three weeks earlier by a DC from the Serious Crime Group. That was interesting. She'd scribbled down the officer's name, made a mental note to give him a call and find out what he'd been looking for…
Three years away from it. Three years of reading all those books she'd never got round to, and cooking, and gardening, and catching up with friends she'd lost touch with for perfectly good reasons, and feeling slightly sick when Crimewatch came on. Three years out of it, but the flutter in her stomach was still there. The butterflies that shook the dust from their wings and began to flap around as she opened the folder and started to read.
A man throttled to death in an empty car park, seven years earlier…
A week into his forty-fourth year. The discovery of his burnt-out car being far from the low point, Tom Thorne was already pretty sure that the year was not going to be a vintage one. Seven days since he'd rushed back from a wedding to attend a post-mortem. Seven days during which the only developments on the case had been about as
