red light. Thorne jolted back in his seat. Bishop looked across at him, a strange expression on his face. 'Her chest was completely crushed.'
They sat in silence until the lights changed. Why should I feel sorry for you?
'I saw Alison yesterday. Anne was testing out a communications device. I'm sure she'll tell you all about it…'
And then small-talk across Waterloo Bridge and into the West End.
Bishop stuck his hazards on as he pulled over on Long Acre to let Thorne jump out. 'How's that?'
'That's perfect. Thanks again.'
'No problem. I'm sure we'll run into one another soon.'
Thorne slammed the door. The electric window slid down.
'Don't forget your briefcase…'
He drove slowly through Covent Garden, up to Holborn, then doubled back towards Soho. Cutting through small streets lined with newly opened shops, their chrome cluttered interiors bathed in the glow of lava lamps.
'Scouting for locations', he believed this was called in the film world. Locations where he might find the next one. There were many to choose from and he'd have a better selection once it was dark, but he was just getting the feel of things.
He tightened his grip on the steering-wheel. He was still unsure what game Thorne was playing. He was making it all so easy for him and still things were far from satisfactory. The one thing he hadn't bargained for was ineptitude. He should have. He knew what was going on most of the time, and the control he felt at those moments was what would keep everything moving towards the correct and proper outcome. But there were seconds of doubt too. Then he felt as if the unexpected might be round the corner and come rushing at him and send everything spinning into confusion. He did not like surprises.
He hadn't liked them for years.
He'd decided to stick to roughly the same pattern but he fancied a bit of a change. Pubs had proved successful and, of course, the discotheque in south London, but he wanted to adjust the demographics. Perhaps he'd move up market a little. Somewhere beset with lacquered wood and polished steel, where decibels inhibited conversation to bellowed sound bites. Set about treating some young thing full of pills and alcopops. Half the job would be done for him already.
All he'd need to do would be to cruise along behind the night bus…
Yes, she would probably be very young. Younger than Helen, even. And so much luckier. Success would mean relief from many more years of struggle and stretch marks. He would get this one right, like Alison. If her heart had the strength, even near death, to keep pumping the blood around the body, then she would be cared for. He looked around at the other drivers drowning in their cars, the pedestrians choking, the shop workers being slowly suffocated. All of them dying a little, day by day. He couldn't help all of them, but one was going to be given a fighting chance very soon.
Then Thorne might start doing his job properly. The kiss, when Anne opened the door to her office, felt awkward. The smiles were genuine and unprofessional. They both wanted more. They'd have to wait. The blackboard stood against the wall. Thorne took a step towards it. 'This would be the communications device that Jeremy was telling me about?'
She looked stunned. 'You've seen him?'
He shrugged. 'He gave me a lift into town this morning.'
Now he had one or two bits and pieces in his briefcase.
'Oh.' She walked over and self-consciously rubbed out some of the scrawlier chalk marks. Now, under the lines of letters, there were two small arrows, one pointing forwards, the other backwards.
'It's… evolving. I'm hopeful.'
He wished he'd made a move on her that night after dinner. For all sorts of reasons. Now things were so difficult.
'I got one of the blokes at work to have a look on the Internet for me,' he said. 'There were all sorts of… gizmos.'
She smiled. 'Oh, there are. If Alison ever recovers significant movement there are power chairs that are incredibly sophisticated. Even as she is now there's the Eyegaze system, which can be operated by the tiniest eye movement. She could maneuver a mouse and type into a computer with vocaliser software. She could speak. She could control virtually any element within her immediate environment.'
'All horribly expensive, I suppose?'
'Believe me, I was lucky to get the blackboard. Do you want a coffee?'
Thorne wanted all manner of disgusting things. Right there on her desk. He wanted to be pushed backwards across it scattering notes on to the floor. He wanted to unzip himself and watch as she walked towards him smiling, hitching up her skirt…
'I'd really like to go and see Alison.'
'Well, you go on up and I'll grab us a couple of coffees from the canteen. You remember where it is, don't you?'
The room was not so cluttered with. hardware as the last time he'd seen it. It still felt as if he'd taken the lift to the basement and stumbled into the generating room, but there was a lot less of it. Alison seemed less attached. There were fresh flowers – from her boyfriend, he supposed. It suddenly struck him that he'd never met Tim Hinnegan.
He had no idea what he looked like, what he did for a living. He'd ask Holland.
Fuck that. He'd ask Alison. When he had time. He needed a piss and hurriedly availed himself of Alison's en-suite facilities. A low metal pan, a sink, a sharps bin. Handles screwed at a variety of heights and angles into the insipid yellow walls. He flushed the toilet and splashed cold water on to his face.
Thorne sat in the chair nearest the bed and looked at her. Her eyes were wide open, the right eye flickering. The smallest movement but seemingly constant. It was incredibly difficult to maintain eye-contact with her. There was a challenge in that unflinching stare – he was imagining it, he knew, but he still felt embarrassed. How long did you ever hold eye-contact with anyone? Even someone with whom you were intimate? A few seconds? Alison would look deep into his eyes for as long as he was comfortable with it. He quickly realised, with something like shame, that this wasn't very long.
He took her hand and held it tight against the blanket. To have lifted it clear of the bedclothes would have felt like.., taking advantage.
'Hi, Alison. It's Detective Inspector Thorne.' He reddened, remembering that she'd just been staring at him for nearly a minute. He was starting to sweat. He shuffled the chair a little closer to the bed and squeezed her hand.
'You must be sick of people being as stupid as me.'
Alison blinked. The sluggishness of the eyelid's downward movement was probably normal but, to Thorne, it implied a weary amusement in her answer. He thought he felt a split-second tremor in her fingers and looked into her eyes for confirmation. There was none. How many of her friends had sat where he was and felt the same things?
How many had shouted for a nurse and gone home feeling stupid?
He was actually starting to feel genuinely relaxed. The low hum of the machines was soothing and soporific. It wasn't unlike being pissed. There was an enjoyable conversation to be had. But he knew that Anne would arrive with the coffee at any time and there was one question he couldn't ask with her in the room.
Letting go of the small, warm hand was difficult but he needed to open the briefcase. From the stiff-backed manila envelope he produced the ten-by-eight black-and white photo, and held it down by his side wondering how best to phrase the question.
She'd recognise Bishop, of course she would. He'd been in the room with Anne the day before, hadn't he? He wasn't really looking for anything like an identification. He just hoped he might learn something else. Get a sense of something else. A recognition beyond the one he knew would be there anyway.
He knew that nothing that happened in this room would ever be admissible as evidence. He also knew instinctively that he couldn't ask her straight out if the face she was about to see belonged. to the man who'd put her here. Christ alone knew how fragile she was feeling. She was almost certainly confused, disoriented, even
