TWELVE
Rachel sat at the desk in her room, the chemistry textbook in front of her long since invisible. She knew that this was what being involved with someone was about. Highs and lows. She'd gone out with a boy for nearly six months when she was a fourth-former and still remembered the dull ache of the phone that didn't ring and the stabbing agony of the undelivered note. This was much worse, though.
She had her own locker now in the sixth-form common room, and had to fight the urge to run and open it every five minutes to check her phone. By the end of the day there would always be at least a text message. She saved them all and reread them constantly. A voice message was always better, though. She loved his voice especially. She walked over and slumped down on the bed, picking up her phone from where it was recharging as she went. She listened to the message again, that strange part of her that she knew was common to everybody, savouring the pain of it. Like gnawing at a mouth ulcer.
He wasn't sure if he could make it tonight. He might be able to but he didn't want to let her down at the last minute. He was sorry. It was a work thing he couldn't get out of. They'd better cancel. He'd call tomorrow.
As always, she was offered the option to delete the message. She saved it, although it was saved, anyway, in her head. She lay there endlessly pulling to pieces every phrase and analysing every nuance. Had he sounded distant?
Was this the start of letting her down gently? He'd call tomorrow, he said, not later tonight. She wanted to call him but knew she wouldn't. The idea of being clingy made her sick. But she knew that if it came to it she would be.
She desperately wanted a cigarette but couldn't risk it. She'd had a couple in the garden the night before when her mum had been out screwing the policeman. She sometimes climbed up on the desk and opened a window to blow the smoke out but her mum would be coming to bed any time. Her mum who smoked, but said that she couldn't. Very fucking fair.
She'd speak to him tomorrow and everything would be fine and she'd feel like a pathetic sad cow. She wasn't a stupid little girl any more. That was why he wanted her.
The carpet fibres that Thorne had scraped from the inside of Bishop's boot were in a small plastic bag. He knew he couldn't take them to Forensics himself and he didn't feel he could ask Holland yet. But there was somebody he could ask.
When the plastic bag dropped on to the pool table, Hendricks didn't shift his gaze a millimetre as he lined up the shot, the cue sliding easily back and forth along the cleft of his chin. He casually potted the eight ball and straightened up. 'That's another river.' His eyes shifted to the bag and its contents. 'Where did you get 'em?'
Thorne handed over the money and put his cue down on the table. 'Where d'you think I got them?'
'All right, smartarse, how did you get 'em?'
'The less I tell you, the less chance there is of you opening your big Manc gob.'
'I haven't said I'll do it yet, and you're not exactly asking very nicely.'
Thorne knew Hendricks would do it, but still felt bad about asking him. He'd put him up plenty of times, they'd done each other favours, lent each other money, but this was work. This was asking a lot. Hendricks was sharp. If he agreed to do it, he'd do so knowing the risks. He wouldn't lose his job, but he might find himself having to take on a bit more lecture work. He was also sharp enough to see that it was a lot of effort for what would probably be precious little reward.
'If you're so sure it's him, then why are you bothering?'
Two teenagers who had been hovering, waiting for a game, stepped forward. One slapped a fifty-pence piece down on the edge of the table. Thorne moved to the bar. Hendricks picked up the plastic bag and followed him. He was chuffed at the thought of the two teenagers watching them go, convinced they were witnessing a deal in some strange new drug.
'Well?'
'Because it's only me that' sure.'
'Fair enough, and when they do match up what does that tell you? Fuck all. We're pretty, sure the killer drives a Volvo and I don't think the carpet in the back of each one is individually produced. I know they're nice cars, but come on…'
'Tickets to Spurs-Arsenal, on me.'
Hendricks took a long slow drink of Guinness. 'I want a box.'
'How am I supposed to do that?'
'How am I supposed to march into the forensics lab with a plastic bag full of carpet fibres I've produced out of the sodding ether?'
'I'll see what I can do. Listen, Phil, you know that lot, they won't ask questions. They're scientists not taxmen. Just tell them you're trying to help and you've got a mate who drives a Volvo. In fact, take in some other fibres from the back of your car or something – you know, like a comparison.'
'I don't recall a single witness seeing a beige Nissan Micra, do you?'
Hendricks had a point. He did perhaps own the single most repellent vehicle on the road in Greater London.
'Thanks, Phil.'
'Remember, a box!'
'Yeah, yeah…'
'Did you know that the Volvo is the only commercially produced car you can't kill yourself in? I mean, obviously you can drive one into a wall if you fancy it, but it has a cut-out device, you know, so that you can't tie a hose to the exhaust, and sit inside and asphyxiate yourself.'
Thorne grunted. 'Pity.'
Thorne had left the pub twenty+-five pounds poorer but without the plastic bag that had been burning a hole in his pocket. He'd had a good night.
He hadn't drunk a thing.
Ten minutes after he got in, Holland rang. The DC spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. He told Thorne that Sophie was asleep in the next room and he didn't want to wake her.
He didn't want her to know who he was calling. Thorne listened as Holland told him about Margaret Byrne. She might have been his first victim if the killer hadn't panicked for some reason. He told him what she'd said about the killer's voice. Nice, she thought. Posh. And soothing, probably, thought Thorne. Gentle. When he heard about the phone call, Thorne pressed the receiver against his ear so hard that it hurt. Bishop bleeping himself?. He dismissed the idea. It didn't make any sense. It was possible, he knew that, but what was the point? There was no record anyway, so why go through the motions?
Dave Holland shrugged off Thorne's question about how he'd got on with Tughan. A flippant remark did the job. He had been trying to forget the discomfort, the unease that had permeated every corner of Margaret Byrne's front room whenever the Irishman had opened his mouth. He wasn't sure whether the unease had been his or Margaret's, but it was stifling. It had stayed with him, following him around for the rest of the day like something rank. Thorne didn't seem particularly interested in Margaret Byrne herself. When he announced that he'd phoned and arranged to see her the following morning, Holland understood why. He tried to dissuade him. What was the point?
They'd already spoken to her and she was coming in anyway to knock up an e-fit. '
Thorne was well aware that they'd already seen her. But they hadn't got a picture of Jeremy Bishop in their pocket.
Anne enjoyed the drive home in the dark. There was usually a play on the radio or a short story or something.
Often, in the forty-five minutes or so from Queen Square to Muswell Hill, she'd become so engrossed that she'd have to sit in the car outside the house and wait for it to finish.
She kept the radio off tonight. She had enough to think about.
That morning, in Alison's room, she'd found the photograph of Jeremy. It was lying on the small table in the corner of the room, probably put there by a nurse. It was obvious to her what Thorne had been doing in Alison's room the day before while she was fetching them coffee and she couldn't bring herself to think about what it might
