had insisted that it had all been his own fault. Both of his knees had been smashed in a nasty fall, he said, after having had a little too much to drink.
Hearing this, Thorne had remembered Louise’s drug dealer, the one who had kidnapped himself and chopped off his own fingers; had thought about how much damage people seemed capable of doing to themselves in extreme circumstances. It was not an observation he had felt able to share with Louise, of course, however much she might have enjoyed it.
He thought it was for the best. He didn’t want to get her involved. And it was not like he had actually lied…
The same old shit.
Laying out the knives and forks, Thorne thought about the prepay handset, locked away safely back at his flat; the confession preserved for posterity on its voice recorder. He knew that while it was in his possession, Zarif would not tell anyone what had happened in his restaurant that night, but he also knew it could be a very dangerous piece of insurance. He could never feel completely safe until Zarif was put away for good, and he would use what he’d been given to make sure that happened.
Without revealing his source, he had already begun feeding the information, little by little, through to those he could trust at S &O. Many of those subsequently questioned and arrested would refuse to cooperate, of course, but Thorne knew that eventually one of them would take the deal that was offered. That Arkan Zarif would pay for what he’d done in the proper way, without the evidence extracted by Marcus Brooks ever needing to see the light of day.
That Angela and Robbie Georgiou, and Jim Thorne, and God knows how many others, could rest a little more peacefully.
Thorne poured out wine for himself and Louise; took a decent-sized slurp and topped up his glass.
There had been no date set for Brooks’ trial, nor for that of Hakan Kemal, but neither defence nor prosecution in either case seemed in much of a hurry. With both as close to foregone conclusions as you could get, it was unlikely that Sam Karim would be running a book on either.
Two defendants, each on trial for murder, but only one who seemed concerned about the outcome.
Thorne had spent many hours questioning his prime suspect after the arrest, and knew that Marcus Brooks was content to go back to prison. That it was perhaps the only future that made any sort of sense for him. Thorne could recall few cases that had absorbed and disorientated him as much; but equally, he could not think of too many that had been cleared up with so little fuss.
He had settled into the abnormally pleasurable rut of pre-trial preparation; had caught three more murder cases; had got back to work.
He had told Eileen that he and Louise would be coming to her on Boxing Day, if that was OK.
He had not returned the missing training shoe he had promised to Anthony Yashere.
Thorne picked up his glass and walked into the kitchen, while Emmylou’s voice soared above a wash of guitar and Neil Young’s keening harmonica, telling someone exactly what they’d lost when they left this sweet old world.
He watched Louise at the cooker for a minute, took a swig of wine and said, ‘I don’t think it’s a
‘I know.’
‘I just can’t promise to be any good at it.’
She nodded without turning round, kept on stirring.
‘Plus, there’s the whole age thing,’ he said. ‘By the time any kid’s a teenager, I’ll be pushing sixty. I’ll be fucked.’ Another swig. ‘I’m
‘Nobody’s arguing.’
‘So long as you know.’
She turned then and laid down the spoon; leaned against the edge of the worktop. ‘Look, I know you think you’ll be shit, and you don’t think you’ve got any patience and whatever, but I’m really not bothered. And I’m not convinced you’ll even
Another step, and he opened his arms as she reached him. It was only for a few seconds, though, before she eased away again, and went back to check the sauce wasn’t boiling.
Thorne watched her flick the kettle on. Saw her pour oil then salt into a pan to cook the pasta.
There are other sides, he thought.
EPILOGUE
The Vulnerable Prisoners Wing didn’t house too many prisoners, with no more than sixty heading down to the servery come meal-time. It was certainly a more orderly process than that taking place elsewhere in the prison. But whatever the size of the queue at the hot-plate, Nicklin always wanted to be first.
He hated waiting, watching while others were served before him. He imagined that they were getting more than their fair share, that he would get second best when his turn came. He’d always been the same way when it came to food. With any of his appetites, come to that.
Dinner was dished out between six and seven, but Nicklin had been there since a quarter to. Clutching his tray and listening to the kitchen staff making banal conversation behind the metal shutter.
He banged on the shutter at one minute past. There were a dozen more in the queue behind him by now.
‘Stop pissing in the soup and open up, will you?’
Laughter from the kitchen, and from behind him. ‘It’s the meatballs you should be worried about,’ someone said.
The shutter was raised and Nicklin moved forward, taking his dinner in silence. Lasagne and chips. A pudding, as usual – apple crumble on a Tuesday – and two slices of bread. Orange juice and bottled water.
‘Nice today,’ said the fat rapist in chef’s whites.
Nicklin moved away from the hot-plate while the ex-magistrate behind him said something sarcastic about Michelin stars, and the chef told him where he could stick them.
He carried the tray up the two flights of metal stairs to his cell, nudged open the door and sat down at his desk to eat. He opened the orange juice, took off the plastic lid that barely kept the food lukewarm.
Fucking lasagne…
He wasn’t in the best of moods anyway; hadn’t been since he’d heard that Marcus Brooks had been caught. Since he’d heard that Tom Thorne’s queer friend had not been among those Brooks had been charged with killing.
It had taken the excitement, such as there was, out of his day. Left him with nothing to root for when the cell door clicked open first thing; to smile about come lights-out. There were only basic pleasures left now. Of the flesh and of the belly; limited as they both were.
He poked his fork through the crust of hardened pasta and fished around, then caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up. A prisoner stood in the doorway, staring.
‘What?’
The man shrugged. Askins: a druggie who’d touched up a fifteen-year-old girl. Not someone Nicklin made a habit of passing time with.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’ Nicklin said. He took a mouthful of the mince. ‘Freak somebody else out-’ He stopped suddenly and cried out, spitting a string of blood down on to his plate and reaching into his mouth for the piece of glass.
‘It’s a message,’ Askins said.
Nicklin swore and spat, lifting up the stiff sheet of pasta and pushing his fork through the watery mince. The tines clicked gently against each sauce-coated sliver. He looked up, pale and open-mouthed, at the man in the doorway.
