Despite the taste, sensitivity and sombre tones it was still television. It was still, at bottom, entertainment or, at its very best, journalism, and it niggled him.
He thought about those police photographers getting Helen Doyle into focus.
'Here we go…' Hendricks sat up and grabbed the remote. The presenter and the specially selected media friendly officers outlined the menu of mayhem on offer for the next forty minutes. Backhand was up first. After a photogenic female DI had looked into the camera and assured him that attacks by complete strangers were very, very rare, Thorne was taken inside the Marlborough Arms. He watched a young actress sitting with a group of girls, laughing. He watched her go to the bar and buy a round of drinks as the voiceover informed the viewer exactly who she was and what she was doing there and hinted darkly at what was about to happen to her. He watched as the young actress picked up her coat and walked towards the door with several other girls.
And he saw Helen Doyle step out on to the Holloway Road, say goodbye to her friends and stroll away to meet the man who would murder her. He saw the colour reappear in her face and the leaves fall from her hair. Beneath her blouse and skirt he knew that the scar from Hendricks's Y-shaped incision had faded and that her young skin was smooth again and smelling of talcum powder. His throat tightened as the blood pumped around the pallid, crumpled legs that carried Helen Doyle down past Whittington Park towards a house where her parents were waiting for her. Now Helen is laughing and talking to a man and swigging from a bottle of champagne. The man is tall with graying hair. He is in his mid-thirties. Could he be a little older? Now Helen is starting to get a little wobbly. She all but falls into a dark-coloured car, which moves away to an unknown location where its driver will quietly, and with great skill, rob Helen Doyle and all those that love her of everything she is.
Then there was Nick Tughan at his most user-friendly. Thorne couldn't deny that he came across well. The jacket and tie were sober. That lilting voice sounded good, no question. The appeal for information was simple and heartfelt. Make a difference and come forward. For Helen. For Helen's family. The operations-room number was given out, and it was on to a series of armed robberies in the West Midlands. Thorne closed his eyes.
' What d'you reckon, Tommy?'
' We'll have to wait and see what the calls bring in:
'No… I mean.., was I pretty, Tommy? Tell me. Did I look all right?'
' Yes, love. You were gorgeous.'
'Tughan's got a touch of the Wogan about him, if you ask me.'
'I didn't. And you're pissed. Now, much as I hate to sully my expensive Scandinavian sofa bed with Goober scum such as yourself, you're welcome to stay.'
Hendricks was already clambering to his feet and reaching for his leather jacket. A half-empty can of lager was kicked across the room in the process.
'Sorry…'
'Gloomy bastard. Try and make it to the tube in one piece, will you?'
Hendricks waved and pulled a face as he walked past the front window. Thorne mopped up the spilt lager with kitchen towel, stuck on a George Jones CD and settled back in his chair. He was glad Hendricks had gone. He wanted to sit on his own and wait for Holland's call. Anne turned off the television and moved around the room, switching off the lamps. Thorne had told her about the champagne, about how the killer had drugged that poor girl. And Alison. Seeing it acted out in the places where it had happened had been chilling. Somehow she felt a connection with Helen Doyle, and through her she suddenly felt connected to Alison in a different way. She knew that she was being fanciful, dramatic even, but she knew she wanted to give Alison her life back for more than just professional reasons. She wanted the man who had attacked her and who had killed those other girls to have failed. She wanted to be the reason he failed. She stood in the darkened living room and wondered why Thorne hadn't been on the programme. Perhaps he hadn't fully recovered yet. He'd seemed on the mend when she'd seen him in hospital, but maybe he shouldn't have checked himself out so quickly. He was pig-headed, but perhaps he was soft-headed as well. She thought about calling him, but she knew it would be a long call. She needed to get some sleep.
Brushing her teeth, she thought about David and pictured him being knocked over by the lift doors. The image made it easy for her to check her laughter lines in the mirror as she rubbed in night cream. She turned off the bathroom light and saw Tom Thorne in the shadows, sitting on the edge of the bed in the hospital ward and staring across the room, a million miles away.
She'd call him tomorrow at work and suggest a drink. As she went into her bedroom she heard the muffled chirp of the mobile from Rachel's room next door. She heard her daughter mumble a hello before pushing her door firmly shut. Anne was annoyed, but didn't want to challenge her about it. Not so soon after that stupid argument. All the same, she had to be up early for school in the morning.
It was a ridiculous time for her friends to be calling. Holland called just after eleven thirty. Caller ID told Thorne that he was using his mobile. 'A lot of people saw her walking down the main road. One bloke rang up to tell us that she was singing when she walked past him.'
She'd been happy walking home. Was that a good thing?
'What was she singing?'
'Sir?'
'I can't remember, Tommy. Robbie Williams, maybe…'
'What about the killer?'
'Well, obviously there were fewer witnesses once she'd turned off the Holloway Road, but we've had a couple come forward. Nothing really new on a description. Three people rang to say that they thought the car might be a Volvo… Can you hear me?'
'Has Keable gone home yet?'
'Yeah, he left a couple of hours ago. Sir?'
Thorne grunted. Was it too late to ring?
'One other thing. We think the killer might have called.'
Thorne had thought it was possible, but it still took the breath out of him. 'Who took the call?'
'Janet Noble. We had the usual load of nutters, but she said this bloke sounded pretty convincing. She was a bit upset, to tell you the truth.'
'Go on.'
'A deepish voice, well spoken…'
Thorne knew what he sounded like. 'What did he say?'
'He said he was better-looking than the actor, that Helen Doyle was a lot plainer and that it was a far better brand of champagne.'
Of course. He'd care about details like that.
'And he asked where you were.'
'What did Noble tell him?'
'She said you'd been taken ill, sir.'
Thorne knew how well that would have gone down. If he'd believed it.
'Thanks, Holland, I'll catch up with you tomorrow…'
'Goodnight, then, sir. '
'… and thanks for that CD by the way. I never got a chance to…'
'That's all right. Is it any good?'
He felt a twinge of guilt. Kenny Rogers' Greatest Hits lay in a box at the bottom of his wardrobe along with a collection of battered paperback books and a self-assembly bathroom cabinet that had go the better of him. He was planning to take it to the charity shop at the weekend.
'Is that it on in the background? Sir?'
Dave Holland clipped his phone to his belt, said goodbye to the officers still taking calls and waited for the lift. He'd known this sort of thing might happen, especially with Thorne, but none of it was making his life any easier. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but you would have had to be stupid not to see that lines were being drawn. He knew what Sophie would tell him to do. Keeping your head down hadn't done the likes of Keable or Tughan any harm over the years, had it?
Or his father.
No harm. Just a nice little pension and some stories and not an ounce of anything like satisfaction in thirty- five years. He'd spoken proudly about 'keeping his nose clean' right up until the day he'd keeled over, stone dead
