movements aren't involuntary but I think you should see it.'
'Yes, of course…'
'He's killed another girl, hasn't he?'
Thorne leaned back in the chair. He wedged the phone between ear and shoulder and started to pour himself a hefty glass of wine. Had it made the papers? He hadn't seen anything. Even if it had, there was no link to the other killings. So how did she…?
Bishop. He'd obviously told her they'd been round. And just how much had she told him about the other killings?
He'd need to ask her about that, tactfully.
'Look, I understand if you don't want to discuss it. Tom?'
'No, I was just thinking about something. Yes. We've found another body.'
It was her turn to pause. 'I know I said that Alison wouldn't be giving you any statements and she won't, I mean not in any conventional sense, but perhaps… Listen, I don't want to raise any false hopes.'
'You think she might be able to respond to questions?'
'Not just yet, but I think so, yes. Simple ones. Yes and no. We could work out a system maybe. Sorry, I'm waffling again. Obviously we need to talk about it but I just wanted to let you know…'
'I'm glad you did.'
And then she invited him to dinner.
He proffered the plastic bag containing a butte of his favourite red wine as soon as she opened the door.
'Thanks, but there was no need.',
'Don't get excited, it's only a plastic bag.'
She laughed and stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek. Her perfume was lovely. She was wearing a rust coloured sleeveless top, cream linen trousers and training shoes. He was struck, not unpleasantly as it happened, by the fact that she was an inch or two taller than he was. He was used to that. He felt like he was going to enjoy himself. His good mood evaporated in an instant as he glanced over her shoulder and saw a man in the kitchen at the other end of the hall.
Jeremy Bishop was leaning against the worktop, opening a bottle of champagne.
Anne stepped aside to usher Thorne in and caught his look. 'Sorry,' she mouthed, shrugging.
As Thorne removed his leather jacket and made approving noises about the original coving, he was wondering what she meant. Sorry? She couldn't possibly have any idea what he really thought about Bishop, so what was she sorry for? As he walked towards the kitchen he came to the heartening conclusion that she was sorry they weren't going to be alone. Bishop held out a hand, smiling at him. Thorne smiled back. Sorry? Thinking about it, he wasn't sure that he was sorry at all.
'Perfect timing, Detective Inspector.' Bishop offered him a glass of champagne. Thorne felt a chill pass through him as he took it. Bishop looked thoroughly at home, moving easily around a kitchen with which he was obviously familiar. He wore pressed chinos and a collarless shirt. Silk by the look of it. He probably called it a blouse. Thorne felt instantly overdressed in his tie, and instinctively reached up to undo the top button of his shirt, which he definitely called a shirt.
Bishop drained his glass. 'Has the hernia been giving you any more trouble?'
'Sorry?'
'It came to me just after you and your constable left. Come on – don't tell me it hasn't been driving you mad as well. Your hernia op last year… I was your gas man.'
Without waiting for a response – he would have been waiting for some time – he turned to Anne. 'I've given your sauce a stir, Jimmy, and I'm off to the loo.' He handed Anne his glass and moved past Thorne towards the stairs. They stood in silence until they heard the bathroom door close.
'Is this awkward for you, Tom? Tell me if it is.'
'Why should it be?'
'I didn't invite him.'
Some good news. Thorne smiled graciously. 'It's fine.'
'I had no idea he was coming. He just dropped by and it would have been rude not to ask him to stay. I know you've questioned him, which is bloody ridiculous…'
Thorne took a sip of champagne. It wasn't a drink he was fond of.
'So?'
'So what?'
'So is it awkward?'
Awkward was putting it mildly. Thorne couldn't recall the last time he'd had a cosy dinner with a prime suspect. He remembered the scene in Keable's office. Make that his prime suspect.
Still, it might be interesting. He already knew the basic facts. The two children, the wife who'd died. But there was no question that it would be valuable to get another… slant on things. Anne was looking intently at him. He hadn't answered her question. So he asked one instead:
'Jimmy?'
'A nickname from med-school days. James Coburn. You know, The Magnificent Seven. He was the one with the knives.'
'Right. Was he any good with scalpels?'
She laughed. 'Whatever misguided reasons you had to question Jeremy, I can fully understand that this might be putting you in a compromising position, but there are two very good reasons why you should stay and have dinner.'
Thorne had no intention of going anywhere, but was perfectly happy to let her persuade him. 'One, I would very much like it if you did, and two, I make the finest spaghetti carbonara in North London.'
Dinner was fantastic. It was certainly the best meal Thorne had eaten in a while, but that was to damn it with faint praise. That his eating habits had become a trifle sloppy had been brought home to him on receipt of his BT family and friends list. They might just as well have sent an embossed calling card saying, 'You Sad Bastard'. Thorne's ten most frequently dialed numbers had not exactly been what he'd call kith and kin. He could only hope and pray that he didn't win the holiday. Two weeks in Lanzarote with the manager of the Bengal Lancer and a posse of spotty pizza-delivery boys on mopeds was hardly a prospect that appealed.
'I hope my grilling proved useful, Detective Inspector.'
The way Bishop emphasised Thorne's rank, he might have been reading the cast list of an am-dram whodunit. His evident glee at the situation told Thorne that he was more than willing to play his part but Anne was quick to discourage his interest in the case.
'Come on, Jeremy, I'm sure Tom doesn't want to talk about it. He probably can't, even if he wanted to.'
This was fine with Thorne. He had no need to talk about the case. He wanted to let Bishop talk, and once the boundaries had been established he wasn't disappointed. Bishop was full of stories. He seemed permanently amused, not only at his own patter but at the peculiarity of their cosy little threesome. Again, fine with Thorne. The anaesthetist dominated the conversation, occasionally making an effort to engage the policeman in trite chitchat.
'Where do you live, then, Tom?'
'Kentish Town. Ryland Road.'
'Not my side of London. Nice?'
Thorne nodded. No, not particularly.
Bishop was a witty and entertaining raconteur – probably. Thorne did his best to laugh in all the right places, although he felt clumsy and cack-handed as he watched his fellow diners twirl spaghetti with professional deftness and delicacy.
'… and the two old dears were sat talking about the beef crisis and how they were going to exercise their rights as consumers and stick it to the French.'
'Politics in A and E?' Anne turned to Thorne. 'It's usually non-stop babble about football or soap operas or 'I know it's a nasty cut but he's never hit me before, honest.''
'But get ready for the killer…' Bishop drained his wine glass, letting them wait for the punch line. 'I heard them saying how they were going to boycott French fries!'
