a fairly good idea why his son had been murdered and was almost certain who had actually done it, he could not yet be sure who was ultimately responsible. He told Donnelly that until he was in a position to give Akhtar the whole story, it was not worth giving him anything. The man had not reacted particularly well to Thorne’s previous progress report and getting him worked up still further was definitely not what Helen Weeks needed.
‘It’s your shout,’ Donnelly said. ‘But the sooner you get the rest of it, the better.’
Thorne said, ‘It’s got to be all or nothing.’
He called Holland, told him who he was on his way to see.
Holland asked if Thorne was planning on making an arrest and Thorne said he was not planning on anything, that he would be in there making it up as he went along. The last thing he needed was that kind of formality, the time-suck of the process and the paperwork. Then, of course, there was the small matter of grounds, the absence of anything but circumstantial evidence, however damning it appeared. Holland apologised for being overly pessimistic then asked Thorne what he intended to do if the man he was going to talk to did not immediately feel like confessing. Thorne said he would have to beat it out of him. Holland said nothing for a few seconds and Thorne laughed and told him he was joking.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Holland asked. ‘I can be there in forty minutes.’
Thorne said, ‘I was joking, Dave. Half joking at any rate… ’
He called Helen Weeks.
They spoke for less than half a minute, but the strain was clear enough in her voice. She was hesitant suddenly, all but monosyllabic. She sounded oddly disconnected from events, as if the call had just woken her and she was not yet sure if she was still having a bad dream. Thorne could hear voices in the background and Helen told him she and Akhtar were watching the television. She and Akhtar and Mitchell. Thorne told her it was good to take her mind off things, that it made the time go faster. She was tired, she told him, but beyond sleep. She kept zoning out, but it worried her because she knew she had to keep her wits about her.
‘Don’t want to drift,’ Helen said. ‘Need to stay sharp.’
Thorne said, ‘Think about Alfie.’
FIFTY-FOUR
He got to the prison a little before five o’clock, and the man he had driven there to confront, though surprised at first, seemed happy enough to see him. Thorne was shown once again into the man’s office and his jacket was hung carefully on a metal hook behind the door. He was offered tea. The man sat down behind his desk and moaned for a minute or so about his heavy schedule and the day from hell he’d had already. He gave a ‘what can you do?’ shrug and said he would do his best to help, though he was a little pushed, and he wondered aloud what it was that Thorne had forgotten to ask first time round.
Thorne smiled and walked back to the door. He took down his jacket from the metal hook and reached into the pocket for the phone.
He was trying not to enjoy it.
But not very hard.
‘Don’t get to a lot of parties myself,’ Thorne said. ‘I mean there’s usually a piss-up in the pub over the road if we get the right result in court, and every now and then the brass lay on some warm white wine and sausage rolls when they want to pat a few backs, but I couldn’t tell you the last time I went to a proper party. Where you can really cut loose and let your hair down, you know. Like this.’ He raised the phone and gave a little wave with it. ‘You can see it on people’s faces, can’t you? You can see that they’re just having the best time, because there’s something like… abandon or whatever you call it in their expressions. They don’t give a monkey’s, you know, and the best time to see it is when they don’t know they’re being watched. Even better, when they don’t even know they’re being photographed. That’s when you catch a glimpse of how people actually are, isn’t it? When nobody’s pretending to be something they’re not, when it’s all out there in the open and there aren’t any inhibitions. I mean, when you think about it, that’s the sign of a really great party, isn’t it? When people can just be themselves.’
Thorne looked across at the man behind the desk, at the look of confusion on a face that was considerably paler than it had been just a few moments before. ‘Oh sorry, here you go.’ Thorne stepped across and pushed the phone across the desk. He watched as the man picked it up and stared at the photograph.
‘Looks like you were having one hell of a night, Dr McCarthy.’
The doctor spoke without taking his eyes from the picture. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I mean, I’m not sure if this was taken before or after you’d had sex with an underage boy, but either way it looks like you and your friends are enjoying yourselves.’
McCarthy said nothing.
Thorne leaned against the desk.
For almost half a minute there was no sound save for McCarthy’s breathing, and his finger tap-tapping against the edge of the phone, and a few seconds of indecipherable shouting from one of the wards.
‘So I was at a party.’ McCarthy pushed the phone back across the desk at Thorne. ‘I’m not an expert in these matters, but I’m not convinced there’s a law against that.’
‘Depends on the party.’
‘I don’t know what you think you can see in that picture.’
‘Well, I can’t see too many women.’
‘Again, not illegal.’
‘Men and boys.’
‘My memory isn’t quite what it was, Inspector, so why don’t you remind me where that party was?’ McCarthy waited. ‘How about when it was?’ There was the hint of a smile, cold and tight. ‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘The person who took that picture knows.’
‘You don’t know anything, you don’t have anything, so-’
‘I know about Jonathan Bridges.’
‘So, if there’s nothing else, I’d appreciate the chance to get on with my work.’
Thorne leaned closer. Said the name again. Hissed it, like a threat.
McCarthy sat back and raised his hands. ‘He was a patient here.’
‘I know he was, and I know when.’
‘Well good, because that saves me the trouble of looking it up.’
‘In for something serious, was he?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In-growing toenail? Athlete’s foot?’
‘The patients’ medical records are confidential.’
‘Methadone, I’m guessing, but it doesn’t really matter,’ Thorne said. ‘The fact that you admitted him is all that matters. The fact that he was in here at the same time as Amin Akhtar.’
‘I was at home when Amin died, as you well know.’
‘But Jonathan Bridges was here, doing exactly what you’d set him up to do.’
‘Which was what?’ The smile made its presence felt again, but now it was looking a little frayed around the edges. ‘How exactly do you think Amin Akhtar was killed?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘You’re a liar,’ Thorne said.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Did you have sex with Amin Akhtar?’ Thorne picked up the phone, held up the photo. ‘Did you have sex with him that night?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘On other occasions?’
McCarthy stood up. ‘I think that’s enough.’
Thorne was already on his way round the desk. ‘Fucking sit down!’
The chair sighed as McCarthy dropped back into it and rolled a few inches away across the polished vinyl on
