TOM. I'M NOT A VIOLENT MAN. (HE PAUSES FOR HOLLOW LAUGHTER AND TO LET THE DETECTIVE INSPECTOR TOUCH HIS SORE HEAD.) DID YOU NEED ST1TCHES I'M SORRY. I HOPE THE HEEBIE-JEEBIES WEREN'T TOO INTENSE. BOOZE AND BENZOS AREN'T THE MOST HARMONIOUS OF BEDFELLOWS. SADLY I DIDN'T STAY TO WATCH. I SIMPLY WANTED YOU TO FEEL SOMETHING OF WHAT IT'S LIKE TO SURRENDER YOURSELF. I KNOW IT WASN'T A SURRENDER IN THE TRUEST SENSE OF THE WORD BUT WHO'S GOT TIME TO BE PEDANTIC? YOU'VE GOT MURDERERS TO CATCH AFTER ALL. A LITTLE PAIN WAS NECESSARY TO BRING YOU UP TO SPEED. AND THE GIRLS FELT NOTHING. REMEMBER THAT. I MUST APOLOGISE FOR HELEN BUT SHE REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO LIVE. ALISON WAS THE ONLY ONE WITH ENOUGH FIGHT TO MAKE IT. WHAT WAS THAT OLD ADVERTISEMENT? IT'S THE FISH JOHN WEST REJECTS…' THAT'S RATHER PAT BUT I'M SURE YOU'LL GET MY POINT. I KNOW YOU'RE ANGRY, TOM, BUT DON'T LET IT EAT YOU UP. USE YOUR ANGER FOR GOOD AS I HAVE AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN'T ACHIEVE. THERE, I HAVE THROWN DOWN A GAUNTLET… OR AT THE VERY LEAST A SURGICAL GLOVE! SPEAK SOON. P.S. I HAVE A PERFECTLY HEALTHY SEX DRIVE AND I WASN'T LOCKED IN A CELLAR AS A SMALL CHILD, SO DON'T WASTE VALUABLE MONEY OR RESOURCES ON CHARLATANS.
Thorne felt sick. He took a deep breath and slid the piece of paper back across the desk. Frank Keable raised his head and Thorne looked him straight in the eye. 'It's Bishop.'
Keable put the note into a drawer and slammed it shut.
'No, it isn't.'
Thorne couldn't look at him. His gaze drifted away to the green metal wastepaper bin, the cheap black plastic hat stand and expensive Barbour jacket. It floated across the dirty yellow walls and settled gratefully on the calendar. September, A particularly uninteresting view of Exmoor in the mist. A two-dimensional and probably long-dead stag the most animated thing in the room.
'So how did you and Dr. Bishop enjoy dinner?'
Thorne was irritated that they'd put it together so quickly. He rather felt that he'd had his thunder stolen. He nodded, impressed. And curious.
'There was a message from Dr Coburn on your machine. She hoped you enjoyed your evening. We called her.'
'Right.'
'Did you, by the way? Enjoy your evening?'
'Yes.'
'Was the spaghetti good?'
'How the luck…?'
'You threw up all over your carpet, Tom. Spaghetti, and a fair amount of red wine…'
Thorne sensed that he might have only the one chance and he needed to perform better than he had last time. A matey tone was best. Conspiratorial. Us against him.
'He's a slimy piece of shit, Frank. He left before I did and waited.'
'He predicted your every move, then? He toddled off with the note he'd already prepared, tucked in his pocket, did he? And an iron bar and a syringe hidden inside his overcoat?'
Thorne was thinking quickly. Did Bishop have a bag with him? Had he seen a briefcase in Anne's hall? He couldn't remember. He was pretty sure Bishop had come by car anyway.
'He would have left the stuff in his car.' Standing his ground.
'Come on, Tom…'
Thorne stood up a little too quickly. He felt dizzy and casually reached out a hand to steady himself. He looked. Keable had seen it. It didn't matter. 'Surely he's worth looking at, Frank.'
'Yes, and Tughan's done it. We're not completely stupid. There's nothing there.'
'Tughan hates the idea because it's mine…'
'Nick Tughan's a professional…'
'Bollocks.'
Thorne was trying hard to sound controlled but he knew that by now the rest of the team would be eavesdropping without much difficulty.
Keable raised a hand. 'Go steady now; Detective Inspector.'
'Sir.' Thorne met Keable's eye. He pushed himself away from the wall and lowered his voice. 'I know what you think and I'm well aware of a certain reputation that I may have…'
'Let's not get into that, Tom.'
Thorne stared hard at him, breathing heavily. 'No, let's.'
Keable wouldn't hold the stare. 'There's no evidence, Tom.'
'Dr. Jeremy Bishop has to be considered a major suspect. He worked at the hospital from which the Midaz61am was stolen. He now works at the hospital where Alison Willetts was taken after she'd been attacked. I think he took her there after he'd attacked her to try, unsuccessfully, to give himself an alibi. He has no alibi for any of the murders and he fits the general description of the man seen talking to Helen Doyle on the night she was killed.' He'd said his piece.
Keable cleared his throat. He was going to say his.
'Bishop was involved with Dr Coburn, wasn't he?'
'Some years ago I believe.., yes.'
'Are you?'
They couldn't confuse what he thought about Bishop with his feelings for Anne, could they? It was necessary to let Anne think that Bishop got to him on that level but Keable would see beyond that surely…
'Tughan isn't the only professional.., sir.'
'Let's talk sensibly, Tom. Everybody agrees we're looking for a doctor.'
'But?'
'The Leicester connection is a red herring due to the date of the theft, if, in fact, the drug stolen was that used on the victims in the first place. Your reasoning as far as the Willetts alibi goes seems to me fanciful at best, and what he was or wasn't doing when the first three victims were killed is irrelevant.'
'What?'
'You know the game, Tom. The GPS isn't even going to look at the first three if we make an arrest. It was all pieced together too long after the event. We've got to go for Willetts and Doyle if we want to secure a conviction. We don't even have an accurate time of death for the first three victims.'
' When he decided it was time, Tommy. That was when: 'Bishop was on call every one of those nights. He's only on call one night a week, it's a hell of a fucking coincidence.' He was almost whispering. 'I know it's him, Frank.'
'Listen to yourself, Tom. This isn't police work, this is… obsession.'
Thorne was suddenly very hot. Here it was, then. Calvert. His mark of Cain. Keable was going to pick away the scab.
'I'm sorry, but you were the one who talked about reputations. I'm not interested in reputations, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I wasn't aware of… recurring patterns.'
'You're talking like I'm a basket case. How many murderers have I put away in the last fifteen years?'
'You were right fifteen years ago. I know that.'
'And I've paid for it ever since. You've got no idea.'
'You've been right lots of times since then, but it doesn't mean you're always right.'
A minute or so earlier he'd felt like a fight. He'd wanted to get into it, but now he was suddenly exhausted, beyond it. 'Most of those times I was lucky. I could just as easily have fucked it up. I didn't always 'know'. But I knew fifteen years ago. And I know now.'
Keable shook his head, slowly, sadly. 'There's nothing there, Tom.' Then, an afterthought: an attempt to damp down the flames a little. He waved towards the main operations room. 'And you know full well that half the men in that office fit the general description.'
Thorne said nothing. Jesus, Exmoor looked bleak. Even the majestic stag looked deeply pissed off about the whole thing. Thorne saw himself walking into the mist, a tiny, distant figure leaving this shit behind him and disappearing. He felt the curtain of fog closing behind him, clammy on his shoulders as he marched across the damp, mossy ground with the voices of the girls echoing far behind him.
