Thorne waved away the thanks and the implicit apology. For a few seconds they drank their tea and stared into the flame-effect gas fire. On the mantelpiece, Thorne could see postcards, cigarettes, a party invitation in a child's handwriting. The large wooden mirror above reflected a water colour on the wall behind him. Clarke caught Thorne studying it. 'That was Jessica's mother's,' he said. 'One of the few things I got to keep.' Clarke was sitting on a lived-in leather armchair. Thorne was adjacent, on the matching sofa. They were both leaning forwards, mugs of tea on their knees.
'It's like the old joke, then?' Clarke said, suddenly changing tack.
'About the police having their toilets stolen.' Thorne smiled. 'Right.'
Though Thorne obviously understood, Clarke trotted out the tawdry punch line anyway: 'You've got nothing to go on.'
'We need a bit of luck,' Thorne said. 'We always need a bit of luck.'
Clarke put down his mug and stood up. 'And if he tries to do it to another girl, would that count as a bit of luck?' He smiled and walked past Thorne to draw the curtains.
Thorne was struck again by how good Clarke looked for his age, though the fleecy blue tracksuit top may have been helping to create the illusion. He was grateful for finding something with which to break the slightly awkward silence. 'You look pretty fit,' he said. He patted his belly. 'I could do with shifting this.' Clarke walked round the sofa, dropped back into his armchair. 'I manage a leisure centre,' he explained.
Thorne nodded, thinking that actually, it explained nothing. Most hairdressers had terrible hair, and he'd known plenty of dishonest coppers. 'Listen, we're making an assumption,' he said. 'We're assuming that this recent incident is connected, in some way, to the attack on your daughter.'
Clarke pulled at his lip with a finger and thumb. 'Obviously. It's the same kind of attack. Whoever this lunatic is, he must be aware of what happened to Jess. He must have read about it… yes?'
'Yes. Or there could be other connections.'
'Could there?'
'I said we're making an assumption.'
'Other connections, right.' Quickly: 'Such as?' Clarke had been correct when he'd said that he had no right to be told anything, but Thorne knew bloody well that there was no other reason for him to be sitting in the man's living room. He'd come to tell him.
'It's possible that the man found guilty of attempting to murder your daughter in 1984 was not in fact the man responsible.' Clarke gave a short bark of a laugh.' What? Because some psycho's gone out and bought himself a can of lighter fluid?'
'No.'
'That's bloody ridiculous.'
'Hang on, Mr. Clarke.'
'So, if a prostitute gets cut up in Leeds tomorrow night that means Peter Sutcliffe's innocent, does it?'
'We had good reason to believe that Gordon Rooker was innocent before the attack last week.'
The skin tightened across Clarke's jaw at the mention of Rooker's name.
'I presume that 'good reason' is some bloody police euphemism, yes?
Like when doctors say 'as well as can be expected' when somebody's on their deathbed. Yes? Am I right? Because, don't forget, we're talking about the man who confessed to setting my daughter on fire.'
'Yes, I know.'
'The man who confessed.'
'He's withdrawn that confession.'
'Well, he's a bit fucking late.' Clarke slapped both palms hard against his legs, and grinned as if he'd been half joking, but there'd been no mistaking the venom in his voice. He reached behind the armchair. 'Hang on,' he said. He found a switch, and flicked on an up lighter 'Best to lift the gloom a bit.' Thorne looked up at the soft circle of light on the ceiling. 'You're right. Of course you are. It's very fucking late.'
'So, you think the man who attacked the girl last week is the man who really attacked Jess?'
'We've got to consider the possibility.'
'Where's he been for the last twenty years, then?' It was, of course, the obvious question and Thorne had only obvious answers. 'Living abroad, maybe. In prison for something else.'
'And he's doing this now, because?'
'Because he's worried that Rooker's about to come out. He's trying to make us look stupid, tell us we got it wrong. Or he's trying to claim credit that should rightfully be his. I don't honestly know, Mr. Clarke.'
'The toilet joke again.'
'Pretty much, yeah.'
For want of anything else to do, Thorne brought the mug to his lips and tipped it back, though he knew full well that the tea was finished.
'Listen, we don't know who this man is, or if he is the man who attempted to murder your daughter, and neither, so he says, does Gordon Rooker.'
'So, you don't believe everything he says?'
'What he does say is that he knows who is responsible for what happened to Jessica. He knows who paid the money, and he's going to tell us.'
'It was some gangster.' Clarke said it as if it were in inverted commas. 'I was told, unofficially, that no one could be one hundred per cent sure which one, but that he was probably killed shortly after what he did to Jess. Right?'
Thorne saw Clarke's expression start to darken when he didn't answer him instantly. He knew that the water was suddenly getting deep and that he shouldn't wade in any further. 'I'm sorry, but I can't really go into.'
Clarke held up his hands. He understood.
'I just wanted you to be clear about something,' Thorne continued. 'If Rooker comes out of prison, it's only so that the man who was behind what happened to your daughter can go in!
Clarke pondered this for a minute. He turned his chair towards the fire, held his hands towards it. Thorne thought that it had suddenly become a lot colder. He also thought: How can he stand to look into a fire? What does he see when he stares into the flames?
'You should have a picture of Jess,' Clarke said, suddenly. The smallest of shivers crept across the nape of Thorne's neck. He felt as if the man opposite him had somehow known what he was thinking. He watched as Clarke got up and walked across to a pine chest in the corner of the room. Photos in assorted metal frames were scattered across the top.
'Right.'
'A reminder.'
Clarke picked up a small frame, began removing the clips that held the picture in place. 'This is a good one.' He removed the glass and took out the photograph. He waved it at him.
Thorne stood and moved across the room to take the picture from Clarke's outstretched hand. Clarke handed it over and stepped towards the door. 'That's the 'before'. You need the 'after' as well. I don't keep any out down here because they upset Isobel. That's the only reason.'
He left the room. Thorne heard him running up the stairs, heard a door open and close.
You should have a picture of Jess.
Thorne thought about how Clarke had said it. As though it were a simple piece of good advice that would aid his well-being. You should check your cholesterol. You should keep up your pension payments. You should have a photo of my dead daughter.
Thorne knew that Clarke was well aware that this visit was not procedural. This was not part of any inquiry, and nor was the offer of the photograph. This was something Ian Clarke wanted Thorne to have. Thought he should have.
When he heard a door close upstairs, Thorne stepped out into the hallway and waited near the front door. Now seemed as good a time as any to be making a move.
Clarke jogged quickly down the stairs and pressed a small black book into Thorne's hands. 'I thought you might want to look at her diary. It doesn't matter if you don't. Let me have it back either way when you've finished with it.'
'Right, of course.'
