nastiest he had ever had to deal with. He talked about the level of violence meted out, how it must have been motivated by an incomprehensible level of hatred.
One powerful bloody tumour, Thorne thought.
It might not have been hatred that was motivating the son, but his killings had been every bit as brutal, and Thorne’s desire to find him and put him away was the equal of anything he had felt in many years.
Louise was talking softly now, to Thorne or the cat.
Anthony Garvey might have seen the newspapers, but there was no way he could know that both Fowler and Dowd had been found, or that Debbie Mitchell was safely tucked away. He would still be out there somewhere; searching, growing increasingly frustrated. That might just give me the edge over him, Thorne thought.
Louise sat up, pulled Elvis on to her lap. ‘This cat loves me,’ she said.
Thorne smiled and put down the book.
Or it might just make him more desperate.
TWENTY-SEVEN
H.M.P. Whitemoor
‘The ex-police officer again, was it?’
‘What?’
‘Your face?’
‘I fell.’
‘Right… ’
‘Seriously, I had some sort of fit and I hit my head on the bunk as I went down. I’ve got to go and have a few tests. Some kind of scan.’
‘What, like an epileptic fit or something?’
‘Could be, yeah. Could be all sorts. I’ve had a couple before-’
‘What?’
‘But this was the first time I got hurt. Good job really or they might not have picked it up.’
‘Christ.’
‘I’m OK, really.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘What about the headaches, though? Do you get headaches with epilepsy?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll go online and have a look.’
‘I can do it myself, we’ve got access to all that. Thanks, though.’
‘We can both do it. Doesn’t hurt to get as much information as possible.’
‘OK.’
‘It’s set off by flashing lights and stuff, isn’t it, epilepsy? Strobes and whatever.’
‘Should be fine, then. Not too many of those in here.’
‘It’s good news, when you think about it.’
‘What is?’
‘They’ll have to move you to a hospital, maybe permanently. Got to be better than this.’
‘I don’t know how that works.’
‘I bet the food’s a damn sight better, and there won’t be any nutcases hanging about with home-made blades.’
‘Let’s see what happens.’
‘Might turn out to be a stroke of luck, you never know.’
‘How’s things with you?’
‘I’m fine, same as always.’
‘What about work?’
‘Just bits and pieces really. I’m great though, honestly.’
‘You need to find something permanent, sort yourself out a bit. It’s all right messing about when you’re a teenager, but you should really think about getting settled.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Don’t you want a steady job and a family and all that?’
‘I’ve got family.’
‘Not just me.’
‘Look, I haven’t found anything I want to do yet, that’s all. There’s plenty of time.’
‘Listen, I’ve got more time than you have, OK, smart-arse? It tends to drag a bit when you’ve got sod all to do but dig the governor’s vegetable patch and take degrees you’ll never use. Goes by in a flash out there though, trust me.’
‘I know, don’t nag. I’ll find something.’
‘I was talking to one of the other lads, and he told me you might be able to come along when I go for these tests. You know, as a relative.’
‘Yeah, ’course.’
‘You don’t have to. Just it’s nice to have a friendly face around when you’re lying there handcuffed to a hospital bed. Never been a fan of hospitals at the best of times.’
‘You don’t have to worry about this.’
‘I’m bricking it, if I’m honest.’
‘I’ll be there, all right? You listening?’
‘That’d be good.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Only a decade earlier, Shoreditch had been a run-down commercial district; but like its neighbour Hoxton, it had undergone a rapid and radical period of gentrification. Recent years had seen the appearance of seven-figure loft accommodation, private member’s clubs, and even an urban golf tournament during which businessmen and media types could dress up in ridiculous clothes and knock specially designed balls around. Young writers set their novels there, and independent movies were shot on the streets. Taxi drivers were no longer reluctant to make journeys there after dark, and they had no shortage of business. While decades of grime had been sand-blasted from Victorian buildings, new developments had sprung up to house bars and nightclubs, with office space for consultancy firms and sleek advertising agencies, such as the one where Andrew Dowd’s wife was a director.
She kept Thorne waiting for fifteen minutes, but he was content to drink coffee in the small, crowded bar and watch the world go by; specifically the hordes of immaculately dressed young women with which the streets around Hoxton Square seemed unnaturally blessed. When Sarah Dowd finally appeared to add to their number, she was at pains to point out that she had only ten minutes. With an accounts meeting scheduled for later that afternoon, she could allow herself no more than thirty minutes for lunch.
Thorne might have said that he was fairly busy himself. Or pointed out that she seemed in a hurry to do everything except apologise for being late. ‘I’ll try not to keep you,’ he said.
She ordered a chicken Caesar salad and a bottle of mineral water. ‘Sorry I wasn’t able to see you at the house,’ she said. ‘I don’t get back until late, most nights, and we’re having some work done, so the place is a bit of a state.’
‘Not a problem,’ Thorne said. ‘Must be a nightmare having builders in.’
‘Oh, God. You haven’t done it?’
‘Nothing major. If I want anything to do with cowboys, I’ll watch a Western.’
