'You're breaking up, Mr. Thorne…'
'What did he say?'
'Oh, you know, he asked me what I was doing. I told ' him I was composing a portfolio of common urban birdlife and I just stared at him until he pissed off. No sweat. Got a picture or two of him as he buggered off, actually.'
Thorne smiled. He'd sent the right man for the job.
'So when can I have them?'
'Well, they're just drying at the minute. Couple of hours?'
That would work out perfectly.
'Right. Bucket of Blood about one-ish.'
'Is that a good idea?'
Bethell was right. Thorne doubted his welcome would be a warm one.
'Outside, then. Try not to talk to anybody.'
'I'll be there, Mr. Thorne.'
'Kodak, you're better than Boots.'
He'd rung the Royal London to check and found out that Bishop's night on call was still Tuesday. He wasn't due in until lunchtime. With a bit of luck Thorne would catch him at home. He certainly looked well rested when he came to the door wearing an expensive-looking lemon sweater and a winning smile.
'Oh… Detective Inspector. Should I have known you were coming?'
Thorne could see him looking over his shoulder, searching for a colleague or a car.
'No, sir, this is purely an on-spec sort of thing. Bloody cheeky, if I'm honest.'
'How's the head?' Bishop was relaxed, his hands in his pockets. They were going to have a cosy chat on the doorstep. Fine.
'Much better, thanks. Good job I'm hardheaded.'
Bishop leaned back against the front door. Thorne could see through to the kitchen, but there was still no invitation to come in.
'Yes, I rather got that impression that night round at Jimmy's. Thoroughly enjoyed myself by the way and I hope you didn't mind my being somewhat spiky.'
'Don't be silly.'
'I can't help myself sometimes. I do love a little verbal sparring.'
'As long as you keep it verbal, sir.'
Bishop laughed. He didn't have a filling in his mouth. Thorne shifted the briefcase to the other hand. 'I had a good time too, which is sort of why I thought I could be a bit pushy and ask you an enormous favour.' Bishop looked at him, waiting. 'I've been to see somebody just round the corner from you, on a totally different case coincidentally, and my constable needed to rush off because his girlfriend's had some sort of accident…'
'Nothing serious?'
'I don't think so, trapped her hand in a door or something, but anyway I'm a bit stranded. I've got another interview to do and I'm running late, and as you were only round the corner and seeing as we've-already had dinner together…'
Bishop stepped forward past Thorne, bent down and began to pull the brown leaves from a large pot on the driveway. 'Ask away.'
'Could I ponce a lift to the station?'
Bishop looked up and stared at him for a few seconds. Thorne could sense that he saw through the lie and was looking to see if it was there in his face. He'd be amazed if it wasn't. Thorne broke the stare and turned his attention to the dying flowers. 'They look as if they were probably lovely a few weeks ago.'
'I'm going to plant evergreens next year I think. Dwarf conifers and Ivies. This is such a lot of work for something that dies so quickly.' He crumpled the dead leaves into his hand and stood up. 'I'm actually going into town. Is that any good to you?'
'Yes. Fantastic. Thanks a lot.'
'I've just got to grab my keys and stuff. Come in for a minute.'
Thorne followed Bishop into the house and stood waiting in the hall. Bishop shouted to him from the kitchen,'There was a photographer hanging about round here yesterday. Bloody nuisance. I wondered if you knew anything about it.'
So the son had obviously come straight inside and told him about Bethell lurking in the undergrowth or wherever he'd been hiding himself.
'Probably the press just sniffing around. They've been getting worked up since the Helen Doyle reconstruction. Did you see that?'
'No.' Had Thorne detected the hint of a pause before he'd answered? 'I didn't know they'd made any connection to the attack on Alison Willetts.'
They hadn't.
'No, but somebody may have leaked a list of people we'd interviewed or something. These things happen, unfortunately. I'll look into it if you like.'
Bishop came striding up the hall pulling on a sports jacket. He grabbed his keys from the hall table. 'I wouldn't like to see myself splashed across the front page of the Sun.' He opened the front door and ushered Thorne out.
'Mind you,' he shut the door behind him and put a hand on 'Thorne's shoulder as they walked towards the car, 'a discreet photo on page three of the Daily Telegraph is a different matter. Might impress a few young nurses.'
Bishop climbed into the car and Thorne walked round towards the passenger side. He stopped behind the car and held up the briefcase. 'Can I chuck this in the boot?' He saw Bishop glance into his rear-view mirror and smiled as he heard the clunk of the boot being opened from the inside.
As the Volvo cruised along the Albert Embankment, Bishop slid a CD into the player. The sound system was certainly a step up from the tinny rattlebox in Thorne's Mondeo. Some people probably thought country music sounded better that way. Bishop glanced across at him.
'Not a classical man?'
'Not really. This is fine, though. What is it?'
'Mahler. Kindertotenlieder:
Thorne waited for the translation – which, amazingly, didn't come. The car was immaculately clean. It still smelt new. When they stopped at lights, Bishop drummed on the wooden gear lever, his wedding ring clicking against the walnut.
'You've known Anne a long time, then?'
'God, for ever. We were pushing beds around the streets together when we were undergraduates. Me and Anne, Sarah and David.' He laughed. 'I'm sure that's why hospitals are so short of beds. They all get pushed into rivers by high-spirited students.'
'She told me about your wife. I'm sorry.'
Bishop nodded, checking his wing mirror although there was nobody behind them.
'I can't believe the time has gone so quickly, to be honest. Ten years ago next month, actually.'
'I lost my mother eighteen months ago.'
Bishop nodded. 'But it wasn't your fault, was it?'
Thorne clenched his teeth. 'I'm sorry?'
'The crash was my fault, you see. I was pissed.'
Anne hadn't mentioned that. Thorne stared at him.
'Don't worry, Inspector, I wasn't driving, there's no case to reopen. But Sarah was tired, and she was driving because I'd had one too many. I have to live with that, I'm afraid.'
You must live with a lot of things.
'It must have been hard bringing up two kids, though?
They can't have been very old.'
'Rebecca was sixteen and James was fourteen and, no, it was a bloody nightmare actually. Thank God I was already doing quite well by then.' He stepped on the brakes sharply as the car in front decided against jumping a
