close.’
‘Are you?’ Donnelly asked.
Thorne said that he was, and he meant it, but he had also lost count of those times when touching distance was as close as he got. When a killer had remained that all-important step ahead and a case had finished up as nothing more than a folder full of paper and an uncomfortable memory. Donnelly nodded, but Thorne knew he understood the way it worked as well as he did. ‘I want him to know I’ve shaken things up,’ he said.
Donnelly told him to make the call.
As soon as Helen answered, the sound quality told those listening that her mobile had been put on speaker. Thorne asked her how she was and, though her voice was a little smaller, a little flatter than it had been the last time he’d heard it, she told him she was fine. Ticking along. She told him she was being well looked after, but that she didn’t want to see another bar of chocolate for as long as she lived, that she was desperate for a hot bath and something a bit stronger than 7-Up to drink. Donnelly signalled to him and Thorne asked her how Stephen Mitchell was, but Akhtar cut in before Helen could answer.
‘Do you have any news, Mr Thorne?’ He sounded almost as tired as Helen Weeks. ‘Or are you just calling to tell me how busy you are? To remind me once again that these things take time.’
Thorne remembered everything Pascoe had told him a few minutes earlier, her worries about Akhtar’s reaction. But there seemed little point in going round the houses, and besides Thorne wanted the news to sound every bit as important, as shocking, as it was.
‘He’s killed somebody else.’
‘Who has?’
‘The man who murdered your son.’
There was almost half a minute of silence. Thorne glanced at Pascoe, but she was looking at the floor. Behind them, the doors to the hall banged as someone came in. They started to apologise and were quickly shushed.
‘Who is he?’ Akhtar asked.
There was no easy way to say it. ‘I don’t know,’ Thorne said. ‘But he is scared because we’re getting close to him. He’s scared, Javed.’
Though Pascoe had been unsure as to how Akhtar would react, Thorne had expected something approaching pleasure at the news. But when Akhtar spoke again, there was little sign of it.
‘Who was killed?’
‘Another boy from Barndale,’ Thorne said.
‘A friend of Amin’s?’
‘No, not a friend. I think he was the boy that attacked Amin.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Someone paid this boy to attack Amin, because they wanted to make sure he ended up in the hospital wing. That was where they planned to kill him, so they could make it look like suicide.’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’ There was anger creeping into Akhtar’s voice. ‘I said that to the police over and over again and I told everybody at the bloody inquest. I kept saying that my son would never have taken his own life.’
‘Yes, that’s what you said.’
‘And you see what happens? You see?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now another boy is dead because nobody would listen.’
‘That boy is dead because the man responsible was worried he could identify him.’
There was another long pause.
‘So, if this boy is dead, how are you going to identify him?’
‘I’m waiting for more information,’ Thorne said.
‘Waiting.’ There was a snort of derision. ‘There’s been far too much waiting.’
‘I know that sounds a bit vague, but I’m hopeful.’ Even as he said it, Thorne realised that he was often guilty of confusing ‘hopeful’ with ‘desperate’. ‘OK, Javed? We’re nearly there.’
Akhtar did not reply. Thorne exchanged a long look with Donnelly while they listened to the hiss and crackle from the speakers, something muttered which was impossible to make out clearly, Helen coughing.
‘Helen?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘You heard all that?’
‘Yes, I heard. I hope you get the information you need.’
‘It’s going to be over soon, OK?’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, what are you drinking?’ Thorne asked. ‘I’ll have a bottle waiting.’
‘Right now, I’d settle for paint-stripper,’ Helen said.
Then Akhtar’s voice. Louder, as though he’d suddenly moved closer to the phone. ‘Don’t start planning your celebrations just yet, Mr Thorne. You have to find this man first. Then you have to catch him.’
The line went dead.
Thorne removed the headset and looked at Pascoe. ‘All right?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ she said.
Chivers nodded towards the monitors. ‘She’s every bit as good as you said she was. Weeks.’ He looked back to Thorne. ‘I reckon she could really help us.’
‘Help us how?’ Thorne asked.
‘With information,’ Chivers said. ‘Once the tech boys have done their stuff, if we can somehow let her know that we’re listening in, she might be able to send us messages.’ He looked to Donnelly. ‘We can slip it into a call or whatever. “TSU’s set up” or something. She’ll know what that means and maybe she can find a way to let us know where Akhtar is when the time comes. What might be waiting for us on the other side of that door if we need to go in.’
Donnelly nodded. Said, ‘Makes sense.’
Thorne turned to Pascoe.
She was looking at the floor again.
FORTY-FIVE
Though she could not know it, Helen had been every bit as surprised as Thorne that Javed had not reacted more positively to what he had been told. To hearing about Thorne’s progress. He had quickly grown irritable on discovering that he had been proved right and that he might soon know the name of the man who had murdered his son. When the call was over, he had spent a few minutes stalking back and forth between the shop and the storeroom, muttering to himself angrily. He had waved his arms around and slapped himself on the side of the head. Then, he had suddenly fallen silent and become morose.
Inconsolable.
As though he had just remembered something terrible.
Helen had said, ‘Good news,’ and ‘Sounds like you got what you wanted,’ but he had ignored her. She had asked for water and he had snapped at her, saying that he was not her bloody servant. Then he had brought it to her without a word.
Over the last twenty-four hours, she had begun to feel as though she understood this man who was holding her. That she could adjust to his reactions, handle things. She had not felt the need to keep pushing for sympathy or pity, to remind him that she was the mother of a small child, and when they had talked, really talked to one another, as they had only an hour before, there were moments when Helen might almost have been able to forget where they were. Now, watching him slumped in the chair with his eyes closed and the blood pulsing at his temple, she realised that she needed to sharpen up and remember exactly who and what she was.
What they both were.
